


Let me pay you back

by von_gikkingen



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-11 06:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20149555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/von_gikkingen/pseuds/von_gikkingen
Summary: “You’re out,” I say, glancing at the empty glass in his hand. “Where’s Carina?”“Who do you think did this?”“Who do you think pushed her to it…?” I reply not missing a beat.





	Let me pay you back

“I could have sworn the last time I saw this place it had a little more… walls…”

He just looks at me. _Not_ amused. Which is fair…

“You look like hell.”

“You’re observant,” comments the creepy duck thing I last saw in a glass-walled cage. Which is where I preferred it if I’m being honest.

“And _you_,” I tell it, “are not a part of this conversation.”

“Hate to break this to you but neither is he,” comments the duck wryly before exiting the… well, remnants of the room.

I roll my eyes and sit down beside Tivan. “Bad day…?”

“I had it. It was right here. I would have had _two_,” he says turning to me. And he doesn’t really see me which immediately tells me what it is he’s going on about. Because he only gets like this when a single very specific subject is brought up.

“Wait… you found another Infinity Stone?” I say, blinking back my surprise. “You did, didn’t you? This isn’t just your concussion talking.”

“How do you know I have a…”

I just roll my eyes and make myself keep my comment about his bandaged head to myself. “You’re out,” I say, glancing at the empty glass in his hand. “Where’s Carina?”

“Who do you think did this?”

“Who do you think pushed her to it…?” I reply not missing a beat. Even though I feel quite a few less than pleasant emotions on hearing the news. I did like the girl. She always tried to be polite to me, even though I was just a lowlife. Very much the only kind of person Tivan had to rely on to get him the kind of rarities he was partial to.

“So I guess this is a bad time to tell you the lead on the Soul Stone turned out to be false…” I say, taking the glass from his unresisting hand. He doesn’t even bother to glare at me, just sighs. A very _yeah, that sounds about right_ expression settling over his features.

“I’m gonna get you another drink,” I decide.

“You are?” he frowns.

“What? Like I never do anything nice for you…?”

“Not unless you’re getting reimbursed.”

I make no reply, just head out further into the wrecked room. Feeling slight unease on realizing just how familiar I am with the layout. How easy it is for me to find the last few surviving bottles of his liquor.

I spent _a lot _of time here over the years. Bringing him his precious trinkets, listening to his unprompted monologues about the unspeakable singularities that are the Infinity Stones. I knew quite a few of his girls too, and even if Carina was the first to make her exit this dramatically there were others that reached their limit of psychological abuse and fought back. One of them tried to stab him if I remembered correctly and at a time I could just about manage not to look too proud of her for it. So, yeah, this situation was anything but new and I had a pretty good idea about how the rest went. He’ll drink some more, feel sorry for himself some more and then he’ll be back to normal. I’m probably only hours from being sent on yet another dangerous trip to bring him something oh-so-rare…

“Here you go,” I say handing him the refilled glass before picking my way through the ruins and heading for the living space I know is way in the back. Hoping it’s still mostly in one piece because I’ve had a long couple of days and I could really use a shower, never mind a real bed to sleep in.

“Where are you…?”

“I’m going to wash blood out of my hair,” I tell him. “If that’s alright with you…?”

He doesn’t say it isn’t so, yeah, I take it as a permission to go ahead rather than final proof that getting slowly wasted is taking up too much of his attention to leave any to spare for me.

But that’s not the last I hear from him of course. No, that would be too easy…

“Do we need to have another conversation about keeping things professional?” I say, wrapping myself in a towel. Doing a pretty good job of keeping calm considering that he’s watching me from the door and might have been for some minutes before I emerged from the shower.

“Am I being unprofessional?” he says wryly, staying exactly where he is. And the way he says it tells me he might soon follow it up with some kind of really problematic comment about being perfectly willing to pay me because we both know I’ll do anything if the price is right. And then I’ll have to use all my willpower to keep myself from doing something violent and…

But we don’t follow the old script this time. And not because he’s too drunk to be _that_ asshole. No, what stops him is the sight of the vivid purple bruises on my arm.

“What…” he starts.

“I get hurt. It’s part of the job,” I say only, pushing past him. “I hurt people right back, too. It’s a whole thing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are. Still perfectly willing to send me right back into danger the next time you hear a rumour of something you’d like to add to your collection, though,” I answer, possibly a touch bitterly.

Ignoring him I sit down on the bed and run my fingers through my still wet hair, teasing out the tangles. And it’s very easy – ignoring him. He’s so silent I almost manage to forget he’s in the room with me.

But that doesn’t last forever. He does remind me – as he crosses the space between us with no warning whatever. And he’s not exactly steady on his feet and I know that whatever stupid idea he has he won’t be hard to fight off. But he doesn’t lunge at me. There is no sense of danger to what’s happening, not even when he reaches me. Because he doesn’t just stand there, looming over me. No, he gets down on his knees and though I’m already bracing myself for having to keep him from trying to remove the towel that happens to be the only thing I’m wearing all he does is watch me. And when he reaches out to touch me he just… runs his fingers over my bruises, so gently that I register no pain.

“Tivan… I might be for sale – but I’m _not _for sale,” I say, forcing a calm tone.

“I know.”

“Do you…?”

I don’t speak the words sharply though I’d have every right to. Still they make him take his hands away.

“You don’t want me. There’s nothing unique about me. I’m not _beyond compare_,” I say, suddenly feeling the need to get up. To put some clothes on and head back to my ship and…

And I can feel his hands on my thighs but there’s nothing aggressive about the touch. He simply wants to keep me where I am. And when I reach for his hands to remove them he laces his fingers through mine and I really have no response to that. All I can do is look at him. To try – and fail – to figure out what exactly is going on here. Because I’ve seen him drunk before. But this was… _new_. “I won’t try to buy you,” he says. “But let me and I will try to pay you back…”

I open my mouth to answer only to find that… no, there are no words. None I can say without my voice betraying me.

My eyes stray downward to our still intertwined fingers. And his seem so pale against the vivid pink of my skin and he might have the excuse of being drunk but I’m in full possession of my senses and know what bad idea this is and…

And maybe I _should_ let him. Maybe for all the money he paid me over the years he still owes me. I almost got myself killed working for him time and time again. I so often drag myself back to this place exhausted beyond words and he just takes whatever treasure I’m bringing him from my shaking hands and makes no comment on my bleeding knuckles and… Maybe I do deserve to get something in return.

“I’ll regret this,” I say, freeing one of my hands so I can brush my fingers against his lips. “But you’ll regret it more…”

“Don’t think I will,” he says, leaning closer. And his breath smells of alcohol and somehow that doesn’t bother me one bit.

“I’ll remind you you said that…”

But even as I hear myself say the words I move my legs further apart. And when he kisses me I _know_. Worst idea I had since I took that first contract from him. But I _am _going to go through with it all the same. Because now I’m feeling a little drunk myself and I’m really liking how we seem to fit together as I close my thighs around his waist and he leans into me until there’s no distance at all and…

And then I’m lying on my back and he has me pinned under him. His lips finally leave mine but I can feel his fingers, tracing the ridges on my skin. I raise my hand to the back of his neck, run the tips of my nails over his skin and... suddenly I no longer feel his weight on top of me because he seemed to have decided that removing his clothes just became a priority. Which… yeah, good idea.

I stretch out on the bed, waiting, watching him fight with the clasps and wishing he hurried up because I can feel my thoughts yet again go in a very _this is a mistake_ direction and I need to be distracted. Need to feel his hands on me again.

With an unhurried motion I remove the towel and run my hands over my still slightly wet skin. To motivate him to hurry up. Because he might not appreciate me in the same way he would some rare artifact, but he still likes what he sees, I can tell. I always could. I just... always knew better than to let him...

But he’s finally out of his clothes now and he’s all lean muscle and I press myself against him eagerly as he joins me on the bed again. “Terrible, terrible mistake,” I utter under my breath feeling his hand find my breast. But I don’t fight it. I can’t bring myself to. I just give myself the permission to do whatever the hell I please because if I’m going to regret this no matter what I might as well have something to regret.

It takes me a while to realize what’s happening. That he’s not going to stop until he made sure he knows all there is to know about my body. He keeps exploring it for far longer than necessary and his focus is so complete and I can feel my nerves burn with pleasure. And I _know _– what’s left of my self-respect is about to be traded away too because I am going to beg him. Because I’m done waiting, done letting him run his hands over every sensitive place he can find, making extra sure there’s nothing he missed. I really don’t understand how is he still holding back and… “Tivan,” I say. And it’s as good as if I begged him, I realize. It’s all in the way I say his name.

“Just give me a little longer,” he says into my ear even as he takes hold of my hips and makes me shift my position until I’m resting on my side, facing away from him.

“You had all the time you’re going to get. Don’t be a bastard,” I say, hating how slowly he’s running his fingers up my inner thigh. “I need this.”

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely,” I hear him say. But I couldn’t care less about his words, all I can focus on is the hardness I can finally feel entering me. And the noises I can hear myself make, even now, even as he’s just starting to move…

Oh, but it’s so hard to care. The sensations running through me are all there is and all my troubles, all my minor aches from the recent battles, all of my doubts – it’s all gone. There is only this, the pure, physical pleasure of it. There’s only his hand on my hip and his lips on my neck and the rhythm of his thrusts and… And I try to smother the sounds because what small part of me still manages some rational thought knows that he’ll sober up eventually and he’ll remember this, remember what he can do to me, how desperate he can make me for his touch and won’t that make him a lot harder to deal with…

But there’s only so much I can do. Only so much I can keep hidden. So what if he knows he has me completely at his mercy. As long as he doesn’t stop. “I’ve missed this,” I hear him say, or just think I do. And if I could form words, if my laboured breathing allowed for that I’d tell him all the things I thought for years but never dared say. That all those priceless things he surrounds himself with, even if they give him some kind of cold satisfaction, are making him lose touch with what it’s like to really live. Lose touch with all the things that are rare and beautiful exactly because they’re fleeting and can’t be possessed. You can only keep them for the time you’re allowed and then live the rest of your life knowing you will never have them again.

But I can’t tell him that, can’t talk at all, all that I can do is try to keep those desperate, animal noises I can feel at the back of my throat from growing too loud. Because if this is him paying me back for all the years of being unappreciated and openly described as expendable he is doing a _really_ good job of it…

“Still think this was a mistake…?” I hear him say much later when his thrusts finally cease. Not expecting me to answer, I don’t think.

He’s breathless too now and that’s good to know but the truth is I got a lot more out of this. My muscles are still trembling with exhaustion and my heart might take a long time to settle down and maybe it’s for the best that my face is mostly hidden behind my hair because I don’t think I want him to see the expression I’m simply too tired to try to banish.

I’m already half asleep when I feel him put his arm around my waist. I welcome the warmth of him as he holds me close, whispering a few more hard to make out words into the tangle of my hair. And I don’t know how to reply so I just find his hand, interlace my fingers with his and stop fighting the exhaustion. Just give myself to the darkness behind my lids.

...

“What…?” I say, slapping the hand I can feel shaking my shoulder.

“What happened?” I hear him say and it’s undoubtedly the panicked tone of someone who just woke up with a hangover and _a lot_ of questions.

“I think that one you can answer for yourself,” I say, already annoyed. Because it was so easy to forget – that there will be a price to pay for the pleasure of last night and this conversation I did _not_ want to have will be it. “Just ask. You know you want to. Did you finally find the right price…”

“I wasn’t going to ask that,” he says and there’s exasperation on his face when I turn to look at him. “I know you better than that.”

“So what do you _think_ happened…?”

He just shakes his head because he really doesn’t have a clue and clearly doesn’t appreciate that I’m keeping him in suspense. “You tell me. How the hell did I convince you to…”

“You said you wanted to pay me back. For being a bastard all these years – I mean, you didn’t actually _say _that part but it was pretty heavily implied.”

“And that _worked_?”

“I mean you can see I’m naked, right?” I say only, tugging at the thin bedsheet that’s only covering one of my breasts anyway.

He opens his mouth to answer then finds he has nothing to say. He also realizes that he’s a little too close, leaning over me like this and retreats to his side of the bed again. There is a silence for a few long seconds. Then… “Did I…? Manage to pay you back?”

I turn my head away to keep him from seeing my expression.

Not fast enough, apparently. Because the next thing I hear him say is a slightly amazed, “So that was a _yes_.”

“This was… a _really_ bad call on my part,” I say, searching the room for my clothes before remembering they were probably still on a pile on the bathroom floor. “I’m gonna go.”

“I don’t think I want you to. What I mean is,” he is quick to add, seeing the look on my face as I turn to him, “this isn’t something you can just walk away from. We still have to be able to work together. Can we just… talk about this?”

“No,” I reply.

But I don’t manage to move fast enough and he has a hold of my wrist and then he’s pulling me against him and the way his arms feel around me makes me forget I was in a hurry to leave. And what does that make me…? “Talk to me,” he says, his breath warm on my neck. And he doesn’t remember last night but me, I remember _everything_.

“I’ve talked to you for years. I know exactly who you are. You literally drove someone to suicide. _Yesterday_. The fact that you also…” I say, closing my eyes and rethinking what I was about to say in a hurry. “I don’t want to be feeling this,” I say instead.

“But you _are_,” he says, his lips brushing my earlobe.

“And it makes no difference. I have to go. While I still have some self-respect left.”

He does let go then, releasing me from his a little too forceful embrace and… and that actually fools me for a moment. I actually believe that means this conversation is over and we can start getting along with pretending this never happened. And then, I can feel his hand in my hair and when I turn to him to tell him to let go he... He kisses me. Softly. Almost hesitantly.

I feel a soft moan rising in me and almost regret it when I realize it’s over already. That this wasn’t one of those long, hungry kisses. That this was just him trying to trigger the memories he couldn’t reach. And… And he definitely remembered _something._ I can tell. Even before he says, “Oh you _can’t_ go…”

“Tivan,” I say, trying to sound reasonable. “If it’s just the once that’s just a mistake. I can live with that. But I let you do this again and it’s something else and…”

“It _is _something else,” he says and I don’t know how to argue with that. Because he sounded like he meant that and… “Stay.”

“And what will that make me?”

“I don't know. And neither do you. How sure you are it's not something you _want to be_?"

I reach up to remove his hand from my hair and say nothing. Buy myself a few more moments of actually believing that I can do this, that I can just walk away.

"I still owe you,” he tells me. “We’re still not even. Let me pay you back. You said it yourself. I was a bastard to you for years. I have a lot to make up for.”

“Well… you’re _not_ wrong…”


End file.
